


The People You Meet During A War

by cluelessrebel1988



Category: MASH (TV), Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: Also...there's some implied animal injury., Gen, Korean War, War, World War I, World War II, but I feel I should mention it just to be safe, connections between random people, crossing paths with strangers, nothing major, potential historic inaccuracies, stuff happening against the odds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cluelessrebel1988/pseuds/cluelessrebel1988
Summary: After serving in three different wars, Sherman Potter has crossed paths with a lot of different people. But he seems to have a peculiar knack for crossing paths with members of a particular London family





	The People You Meet During A War

**June, 1918 -- The Western Front, France**

Shells exploded around young Sherman Potter as he urged his horse forward in a desperate attempt to get back to the safety of the Allied lines. Not that his steed needed much convincing to run away from the explosions. At this point, both horse and rider were operating on pure instinct. For the horse, it was the instinct to survive. For the young private, it was the instinct to hold on as tight as he could to keep from being thrown from the animal.

He cursed his luck for the thousandth time that morning as another explosion sent a rain of dirt over him. He’d been part of a cavalry scout party, half a dozen soldiers, trying to ascertain where the German line was. Not only had they managed to find it, they had accidentally alerted the soldiers to their presence. As the Germans opened fire, the scouts had scattered. Sherman had no clue if any of the others were still alive, or if they’d been captured, or what their fate was.

Sherman wasn’t able to dwell on those thoughts for long as the next shell nearly found its mark, exploding less than fifty yards from him. The force of the blast threw the young private from his horse and sent him tumbling across the wasteland. He landed hard, the breath immediately leaving his body.

After a moment of catching his breath, he rolled to his side and saw three people running toward him. Between the shell explosions and the debris they rained down, he couldn’t make out who they were, so his hand instinctively went to the pistol he wore on his side. He was about to draw it when a voice reached through the ringing in his ears.

“Get a hold of him, quickly!” one of the men shouted to the other two. Sherman detected an accent on the man’s voice, though he was too dazed to place it. The other two soldiers each put an arm around him and lifted him to his feet. The group then ran back in the direction the three men had come from.

The next thing he knew, Sherman was in a trench, surrounded by other soldiers. His wits were beginning to return and he realized the men were British. The two men carrying him sat him against the far wall, then the third knelt beside him. “Are you alright, son?” the man asked.

“I…I think so,” Sherman said with a small nod.

“We’ll get a doctor to check you out and take a look at that leg,” the man said, gesturing for some of the other soldiers to do just that.

“My leg?” Sherman asked, looking down. He noticed for the first time that his left pant leg was torn in several places, and had darkened with blood and, much to his surprise, he found that it hurt when he tried to move it.

“Looks like you caught some shrapnel from that last shell,” the man said. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. Can you tell me your name?”

“My name…Sherman Potter,” he replied. “I’m with the First Calvary.”

“Good,” the man said with a nod. “At least you’ve still got your wits. Now, what the bloody hell were you doing out there?”

“I was on a scouting mission,” Sherman replied. “The Germans got wise to us and started firing. My horse and I just started running…” He trailed off as the doctor arrived to tend to his injuries and the soldier stood to give him room.

“We’ll see about getting you back to your unit as soon as we can,” the soldier, a sergeant Sherman now realized, said with a small nod. He turned to the rest of his men. “Alright, boys. There’s still a war on. Let’s get back to it.”

“Wait,” Sherman said, causing the sergeant to turn back. “What’s your name?” He wasn’t sure why he asked, but the question was out there now.

“Banks,” the man said with a small nod. “George Banks.” Without another word, he returned to the line with the rest of his men. Sherman, in the meantime, turned his attention to the doctor treating his wounds.

**December, 1944 -- Ardennes Forest, Belgium**

Captain Sherman Potter, now a medic with the US Army, finished tying a bandage around a wounded soldier as gunfire and shells exploded around him. The Germans had launched a counter offensive a few days ago that had sent the entire Allied line scrambling. Sherman was barely able to keep up with the wounded soldiers calling for a medic. As soon as he finished with one, he was hurrying toward another. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept.

“That’ll hold you ‘til they can get you to a proper doctor,” he said to the young soldier he’d been working on. “Litter!” he called over his shoulder. Two men appeared a few moments later with a litter and loaded the soldier up as Sherman moved on to the next casualty.

He was just finishing patching up a soldier’s leg wound when he heard a voice from a nearby foxhole calling for a medic. Grabbing his bag, he crawled toward the voice and found a wounded Lieutenant with multiple bullet wounds in his shoulder, side, and legs.

“It’s alright, son,” Sherman said, opening his bag. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“I wish I was as sure as you,” the soldier muttered through gritted teeth. Sherman was surprised to hear the British accent come from his mouth and said as much. “I was…but I was sent as a messenger with reports from our front. Afraid I got caught in the middle of a mess.”

“So you did,” Sherman said, already bandaging the wounds in the man’s side. “But it doesn’t look like you got hit anywhere too important.” He tied off the bandages and moved to the shoulder wound. “What’s your name, son?” he asked, hoping to keep the soldier talking and focused on anything besides his wounds..

“M-Michael Banks,” the soldier replied.

“Banks…I met a British soldier with that last name not fifty miles from here in the last war,” Sherman said. “He saved my life actually. I was with the cavalry back then and I’d been out on a scouting mission when I got separated from the rest of my unit and the Germans were raining holy hell down around me –“ He was cut off by an exploding shell just a few yards away and he covered the soldier’s body to keep as much as of the raining dirt off of him as he could. “Not unlike they are now,” he commented dryly before continuing.

“Anyway, I was riding like a bat just escaped from Hades, a scared private riding a terrified horse toward what I hoped was friendly territory, when a shell exploded nearby, throwing me from my horse, and knocking me senseless. Next thing I know, a couple of soldiers are out to get me and carry me back to their lines.”

“And one of them was Banks?” the lieutenant asked.

“That’s right. Of course we didn’t exchange pleasantries at the time, but a bit later, once we were back in the trench, he told me his name.”

“It’s funny,” the soldier said. “My father was stationed not far from here. Perhaps it was him…George Banks.”

Sherman paused, glancing up at the soldier. “As a matter of fact, that was his name,” he said. “Guess it really is a small world.”

The young man looked at him for the first time, and Sherman could see the family resemblance. “Well…” he said after a moment, finishing bandaging the last of the man’s wounds. “It sounds like you’ll have one hell of a story to tell your old man when you get back home.”

“No…he died, almost fifteen years ago,” Michael replied, laying his head back.

“Oh…I’m sorry,” Sherman said. At a loss for anything else to say, and hearing more people calling for his services, he called for a litter and, after one last check of the bandages, moved on to the next wounded soldier.

**October, 1952 – Uijeongbu, South Korea**

Colonel Sherman Potter walked into the post-operative ward of the 4077 M*A*S*H, ready to make his rounds to check on the patients he and the other surgeons had operated on a few days earlier. As he scanned the faces in the beds it struck him how young all of the patients…the soldiers…looked. It seemed that, with each passing war the soldiers got younger.

Either that, or I’m getting older, he thought, moving to his first patient. Or both.

He made his way through the ward, checking on the patients one by one. Eventually he came to a bed which housed a young soldier who was in the middle of writing a letter. Sherman recognized him as one he had personally operated on, and picked up the chart hanging from the foot of the bed, refreshing his memory on his name and the specifics of the case.

“Corporal John Banks,” he read out loud. “From London. See you’re with the Royal Fusiliers. Good unit, do your country proud.” He looked up at the young man, giving him a small smile. “How are you feeling today, son?”

“As good as I can be, sir,” the young man said, returning the smile. “Thanks to you and your staff here. I see a few of my comrades here as well,” he added, glancing around.

“Well we certainly do our best,” Sherman said, pulling up a chair to sit down next to the corporal. “Are you feeling any unusual pain or discomfort?”

John shook his head, prompting Sherman to ask a series of medical questions, all standard. When he was finished with that, he looked back to the chart, his eyes lingering on the young man’s name.

“Son…Can I ask you a personal question?” Sherman asked.

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Are you the first member of your family to serve in the army?”

John shook his head. “No, my father and grandfather were each drafted into the world wars and fought in France. I ended up in a country I didn’t even know existed until we declared war on it,” he added dryly.

“And your father’s name…was it Michael?”

The young man paused. “Yes, sir.”

“And your grandfather’s name was George.”

John repeated his answer, his confusion showing on his face.

Sherman let out a chuckle, pausing for a moment to reflect before looking to the young soldier. “Corporal Banks,” he began, “I’ve got one hell of a story to tell you.”


End file.
